I know the ideas come from somewhere deep inside. I know they started when I couldn't sleep and I thought up a story. Then, I liked it so much, I started writing it down. At that time, I was pretty much confined to home all the time, seriously ill with MS and unable to go out for the pain.
Other than the hours a day when my children were home and awake, I had very little to occupy my time. Holding a book was almost impossible. Writing with a pen, no go. But, for some reason, typing worked for me. And because I am a long-time typist, I didn't have to focus on my fingers. My kids will tell you I can listen to them, respond, and still be typing. So, the story unfolded and I typed it, as if I were typing out a movie in my head. I can go inside myself, tune out the world, and there it is. I can't do that with a pen, even now that I can hold one once again.
But, that storyline? I have no idea where it came from. I've written of times past, places that don't exist, and landscapes which, though real, I've never seen for myself. My next book takes place in Wyoming and was begun while living in NJ, before I moved to Southern California and before I could easily access images on Google. So, imagine my amazement that, when I did finally look up photos, they matched the landscape in my book!
As I told one reader of a sneak peek on my FB page, on a scene that described the landscape... "No, I've never been to Wyoming. It was strange, the way the story unfolded there. I wrote things like that years ago before I ever came out West. Then, when I took this out to polish it up, I Googled pictures of Wyoming and there it was, just as I'd imagined it in the story. No idea where that came from..."
The truth is, I don't know where the stories come from. And, I think it's better that way. I have a feeling that if I ever did find out, they would stop coming.